Michael Fowler - Secret of the Dead

“Or Ronnie Fisher?”

The colour in Alan Darbyshire’s face had just returned to some normality. His cheeks flushed again. “Look, where is this going?”

“What if I tell you we have a witness, who overheard a conversation between you, and Peter Blake-Hall, and Ronnie Fisher, discussing the murder of Lucy, as recently as early November this year, when you made a mention of evidence which could get you all sent down.”

“I’d say she was wrong.”

“I never said the witness was a she.”

Alan Darbyshire’s eyes widened.

“We, as you have already stated, have been doing our homework and we are building up a case which is not putting you in a very good light. We have a lot of unanswered questions, especially regarding Lucy’s disappearance all those years ago, and now the murder of your ex-colleague Jeffery Howson. This is your chance to redeem yourself.”

“I would prefer not to say anything further.”

“If you’re certain about that?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I’ll give you one last opportunity.” Hunter shuffled out several more exhibits from his folder and laid them out in front of the retired DCI. “You have just said that the last time you saw Peter Blake-Hall was about a year ago. How do you account for these photographs, taken just over three weeks ago on tenth November? It looks to me as though you, Peter and Ronnie are having a heated exchange of words. What was that about Alan?”

Alan Darbyshire’s chair almost fell over as he jumped up, face filled with fear. He smashed a fist hard down on the table and screamed. “You think you’re fucking smart, don’t you? You’ve no fucking idea who you’re dealing with here”

* * * * *

Two phones rang at the same time at opposite ends of the office, breaking Carol Ragen’s concentration. She looked up from her journal and glanced around the room. The place was empty and that surprised her, because twenty minutes earlier, when she had got back from her task of updating Jeffery Howson’s daughter and ex-wife about the latest stages of the investigation, she had walked into a scrum-down between Detective Superintendent Michael Robshaw, Detective Inspector Scaife and Civilian Investigator Barry Newstead. She’d gathered that the three of them were working through the next lines of the enquiry. She had been so immersed in writing up her journal that she hadn’t even noticed them leaving the department.

One of the phones stopped ringing and she waited for the other one on the Detective Inspector’s desk to switch across to his voicemail. After thirty seconds of continuous ringing she realised that wasn’t going to happen and giving out a long sigh she scraped back her chair and strode across.

“DC Ragen,” she said, snatching the phone off its cradle.

The downstairs receptionist was on the other end. She explained that a woman had come in asking for someone from MIT — that she had information about the Lucy Blake-Hall case.

Carol was about to tell her to take down details, and that someone would go out and see her later, when she changed her mind. “Tell the lady I’ll be down in a couple of minutes.” Hanging up, she tramped back to her desk, picked up her notepad, and swept out of the office, down the back staircase to the rear of reception. When Carol sprung open the door into the foyer, she saw that the only person in there was a slim, dark haired woman in a bright red duffel coat, who, despite wearing too much make-up, appeared to be in her mid to late forties. The lady met Carol’s gaze.

Carol said “Mrs?” and waited for a response.

“Aldridge. Lisa Aldridge.” She took a step forward and removed a newspaper from beneath her arm. “I’ve come about this.” She held up the paper.

It was the latest edition of The Barnwell Chronicle, with ‘Innocent’ emblazoned in large print across its front page. Carol had already read the article and knew that it featured Daniel Weaver’s release on bail, pending the possibility of his appeal and the re-investigation into the Lucy Blake-Hall case.

“Would you like to come through?” she said, pushing the door open for the woman to pass.

Carol led the way down the corridor and showed her into a small ante-room, used mainly by uniform for taking complaints or statements. As such, it had very little in the way of comfort — just a table and four chairs.

Carol pulled out one of the chairs and gestured for the woman to sit opposite. Carol sat and watched the woman unbutton her bright red coat before taking up the offer. As she flopped into the chair she slid across the newspaper.

She appeared agitated.

Carol gave a reassuring smile. “I’m detective Carol Ragen, she said.

“As in Jack Regan, ‘The Sweeney’?” the woman gave a short, throaty laugh.

Carol wished she had a pound for every time someone had said that.

Lisa Aldridge stabbed at the bottom portion of the paper, and a sub-headline relating to the re-opening of the Lucy Blake-Hall case. “I’ve come because I think I saw what happened to Lucy that night.” There was a nervous inflection in the woman’s voice.

Carol felt the hairs on the back of her neck prickle. She said “Oh yes?”

“I think I may have been one of the last people to have seen her, and I saw what happened to her after that argument in the market place.”

Carol flipped open her notepad and thumbed through to a blank sheet. She wrote down the woman’s name quickly. “Did you not make a statement back in nineteen-eighty-three, during the original investigation?” In spite of the heavy foundation masking Lisa Aldridge’s face, Carol detected the woman’s cheeks flushing.

There was an awkward silence and then the woman answered, “No. I’m sorry. I realise now I should have, but my mother told me you had arrested someone for Lucy’s murder, and so I never did. It’s only seeing this in the paper that’s made me realise I should have done.”

“What do you mean?”

“Sorry I’m not explaining myself very well am I?” Lisa held Carol’s gaze for a second and then continued. “I was in the market place on that Bank Holiday Friday. I’d been out with some mates in town. We were celebrating me getting a job in Canada.” She broke into a smile as if remembering the moment again. “I’d got a job as a nanny with a family in Medicine Hat and I was flying there the next day. I was having one last drink with my closest college friends. I left early. They wanted to go into Rotherham to a night club, but I didn’t want to be rough for the long flight, so I told them I was catching the bus home. So after saying our goodbyes, I went to the bus stop in the market place. I’d forgotten it was Bank Holiday and there was a limited service, so I had to hang around there for a bit and that’s when I saw Lucy arguing with him.” Lisa stabbed at the newspaper again, directly over the photograph of Daniel Weaver. “It was a right old ding-dong between the pair of them. I was a bit nervous about it because it was going off just across the street from where I was and so I hid by the side of the shelter. I could still see and hear a bit of what was going on though.”

“And what was going on?”

“I can still see it as if it was yesterday. He had hold of Lucy by the arms, shaking her and shouting something about ‘It didn’t matter. He still wanted her and he’d sorted out a place for them to go.‘ Well, words to that effect anyway. And she said that she couldn’t go. She had Jessica to think of and something about ‘You don’t know him. You don’t know what he’s capable of’ and that she couldn’t go with him. She also said ‘and if you know what’s best you’ll forget me’. Then she pulled away from him. He pulled her back and said something like ‘I can’t let you go like this’ and that’s when she pushed him away again. I think she caught his face, ’cos I saw him put a hand to his cheek and then look at it — you know as if there was blood on it. Then she just screamed at him ‘Danny it’s over. I’m not leaving Jessica. Now just go away’. And that was the end of it. He just stormed off.”